Sons Of Orion

By Robert A Whippey

Peter Ferris has no recollection of the eventsof the last three days. He discovers that he phoned the Ambulance Serviice for help with an injured man at his home. but he has no memory of the incident occuring! He decides to find out what is going on, and what he discovers is beyond anything he could possibly imagine!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert A Whippey
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393364818

Book preview

MID-WALES

JANUARY 1992

THEY CAME FOR HIM AT midnight. Originally, the plan was for a 0200 hours start, but, with the weather deteriorating rapidly it was brought forward two hours. If the forecast was correct, and they didn't get away before the storm struck, a two, or maybe three day delay was possible, and that was unacceptable.

There were four men in the escort; a sergeant, a corporal, and two privates, all members of the R.A.F. regiment, all four armed. Walking behind them were two men, one uniformed, the commanding officer of the camp, the other dressed in civilian clothes, and carrying a green parka over his left arm. They marched down the long corridor, the synchronised clatter of their boots on the polished tile floor echoing off the drab grey painted walls. Two more armed guards, stationed one each side of the door, came to attention, and saluted the sergeant, who returned the gesture.

He opened the door and entered the room, holding the door open for the senior officer, and the man in civilian garb, to follow. The man they had come for was the only occupant and he was standing in the middle of the room, having anticipated their arrival.

The civilian broke the silence.

It's time to leave, are you ready?

The man nodded, stepped forward, his hands clasped in front of him, fingers interlocked.

Put this coat on, you'll need it, it's bitterly cold out tonight. He handed him the hooded parka, watched as he put it on over the green R.A.F. overalls he was wearing.

The four men left the room, stopping outside the door for the procession to arrange itself in the correct order. The sergeant in front, followed by the man they were there to escort, flanked each side by the two lower ranks, the corporal bringing up the rear. With the camp commander and the civilian following they retraced their steps down the echoing corridor to the waiting transport.

As he walked, the senior uniformed officer recalled his briefing with the man from Whitehall, the day before.

Simplicity, that's the secret of this operation.

He'd paced the office as he spoke, hands clasped behind his back, pausing occasionally to study the photographs of aircraft on the walls. I want it carried out with the minimum of fuss, so as not to attract attention to ourselves. Rumours have started locally, which could alert the press, the last thing we want at the moment. Anyway, we've gone as far as we can here. Now he's well enough to travel, a move to a better equipped facility is needed. We'll just use one vehicle, and leave at two a.m., when there's not much traffic on the roads. I'll follow behind, a minute or two later. Both vehicles will be in radio contact, so, if there's any problem, I can be with them quickly. Nobody's going to take any notice of just two vehicles leaving the camp at that time of the morning, so we should get away with it easily.

`I hope you're right', thought the commanding officer,`because if anything goes wrong I'm glad it's your arse in the firing line, and not mine!

The seven men exited the building, passing another two armed guards stationed outside the entrance, one of whom had opened the door at their approach. As they crossed the short distance to the waiting Sherpa minibus, the man in the green parka looked up to the dark sky, hoping for a glimpse of the stars, the thing he'd missed most during his stay in the windowless room. But none were visible; the clouds, heavy with their burden of snow, obliterating the tiny pin-points of light.

He dropped his gaze on to the back of the sergeant in front of him, saw the already falling snowflakes whitening the blue cloth of his uniform overcoat.

The procession reached the bus, and came to a halt. One of the privates stepped forward, and opened the sliding side door, allowing the prisoner, the corporal, and the other private to climb inside. He closed it, then walked around the front of the vehicle and climbed into the driver's position. Once they were all aboard, the sergeant came to attention, saluted the civilian and the commanding officer, then took his place in the front passenger seat. The driver started the engine, and they moved off, towards the camp entrance.

Once outside the camp perimeter, and out of sight of the senior ranks, the sergeant spoke for the first time "Bloody hell, look

at this bloody lot coming down, he said, referring to the thickening snow, now falling faster than ever. Put your foot down, Jonesey, let's get back to civilisation, he continued. I don't want to be stuck in this God-forsaken dump a night longer than I have to".

The hand-held radio on the dashboard in front of him crackled. It was the man in the dark green Range-Rover, following half-a-mile behind.

Zulu one to Zulu two, receiving, over?

He picked it up, pressed the transmit button, and replied. Zulu two, receiving you loud and clear, over.

Zulu two, road conditions deteriorating rapidly.

I can see that from here, mate, the sergeant said to himself. Why did these guys from London have to state the obvious? Do they think we're all idiots?

Drive with caution, the message continued, we don't want any accidents, over.

Message received and noted, Zulu two out. He terminated the conversation quickly, grumbling under his breath.

Driving conditions were worsening rapidly, the snowstorm having become a full-blown blizzard. Visibility was very poor, the headlights just reflecting back off the falling snow, hardly picking out the road surface ahead. The wind had risen to gale force, buffeting the mini-bus constantly, the passengers swaying from side to side with its motion.

The driver misjudged the bend completely, one of many on the twisting country road, his speed too high for the slippery surface. He fought the wheel, cursing, trying to correct the Sherpa's slide, but it was to no avail. The bus hit the high curb with a loud bang, and rolled over onto its side, partly demolishing a section of the old, low, stone wall that bordered the road, coming to rest with its bonnet hanging over the long drop to the river below.

Nobody moved inside, the only sound the howling of the wind, and the creaking of damaged metal. The prisoner moved, sat up gingerly, stunned by the impact. The vehicle had toppled onto the side that he was sitting, so he hadn't been thrown about like the other passengers. Still no movement. He looked around. The flexing of the body shell had caused the back doors to burst open, the still lit rear lights bathing the snow outside with a dull red glow. He dragged himself to the back of the bus, crawling over a human form as he did so, survival his only

thought, and out into the cold air.

His legs felt rubbery, he didn't trust them to support his weight, so he stayed on all fours, the blizzard howling around him, the thick flakes of snow lashing his face.

Someone groaned inside the shattered vehicle, then the sound of movement reached his ears, metal creaking, more movement inside, voices talking.

Suddenly the minibus tilted, the back end lifted off the ground, and in slow motion slid over the edge into the valley below, engine first. The bangs and crashes of it's passage were muffled by the snow, the headlights flashing intermittently as it rolled over and over. Then only the roaring of the wind could be heard.

The man hadn't moved, was still on his hands and knees in the fresh snow, stunned by what had happened, his mind struggling to take in recent events. He crawled to the edge of the drop, looked over, but could see nothing in the darkness below.

During his stay at the camp, escape had nev crossed his mind, so tight was the security there, but he realised now that if he moved quickly, freedom was within his grasp. He stood up, leaning into the high wind to keep his balance, looked up and down the road, before deciding to return the way he'd travelled, uphill. He'd only walked about fifty yards, when he saw the lights of a car, travelling slowly, coming towards him. He took cover at the roadside, and watched the dark green Range-Rover pass by, oblivious to his presence.

He waited until it negotiated the bend where the accident had happened, the driver unaware of anything untoward, and passed out of sight, before resuming his journey.

It was hard going, the blizzard now in its full fury, but he didn't mind. He was used to cold, it was his natural environment. In fact he welcomed it.

After about a mile, he saw a narrow lane branching off to the right, with a slight uphill gradient, so he took it. He knew that if he could get high enough, he would be safe, rescue would be possible, so any uphill route suited his purpose.

Half an hour later he came to the entrance to a forestry road, edged by tall fir trees. As the lane had levelled out, and the forestry road appeared to climb the hill, he decided to take it. The trees broke the full force of the storm, making it easier to walk up the avenue, and he welcomed the relative calm of the forest.

Fifty yards on, he stopped to rest, briefly, sitting down on a large boulder at the side of the gravel road, his arms resting on his thighs. Five minutes was all he needed before continuing, but that's when his luck ran out.

As he stood up, his right foot slipped on the wet snow and he toppled off the road, rolling down a steep incline. He didn't roll far, only about ten feet or so, but, just before the bottom his head struck the sharp edge of a rock with a sickening thud, and everything went black.

1  QUESTIONS

THE FIRST SIGN I HAD that anything out of the ordinary had happened was the telephone call on the Thursday morning. I'd surfaced later than usual, having forgotten to set my alarm the night before, and feeling a little hungover. As I splashed cold water on my face, I tried recalling the previous evening. Had I had a drink too many? I couldn't remember even having one drink, let alone enough to give me a hangover. Very strange! Perhaps it was something I ate, that had disagreed with me. I didn't get my usual high spirited welcome from Kim, either. When I went downstairs he seemed as sluggish as I did, just lying in his bed, only opening one eye dispiritedly to see who it was. The sun poured into the living room as I opened the curtains, surprisingly bright for mid-January, helped, probably, by the reflection off the thick carpet of snow that lay everywhere.

I was sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen when the phone rang, halfway through my first mug of coffee.

Mr. Ferris?

Speaking.

Good morning. This is Dave Evans, Ambulance Control. Just checking to see if your problem has been sorted.

I'm sorry? I sat up on my stool, suddenly more alert.

The chap you rang us about on Monday, he banged his head near your home?

I didn't have the faintest idea what he was talking about!

I think you must have the wrong number.

I don't think so sir, he said, and proceeded to read my name, address, and telephone number.

Well, I'm sorry, but I don't know anything about it. I haven't rung you at all. Somebody must be playing some sort of a sick joke on me, but I can't think who.

Well, I suppose it's possible, sir, he said, his voice sceptical, but it's a new one on me. The Fire boys get a lot of that sort of thing, I know, but we don't. Are you sure you don't remember calling us?

Well, I think I'd remember if I'd found somebody injured, and rung for an ambulance, don't you?

Yes, I suppose you're right, sir, he replied. It is a bit strange.

Look, I'll have to think about this, and ring you back, see if I can find out what's going on. I'm sorry if you've been inconvenienced. Can you give a your phone number that will get me through to you direct, without dialling 999?

He gave me his name and number, telling me he'd already given it to me on Monday, then hung up.

I sat there after he rang off, staring into space, unable to think of